


24 Frames per Second

by kedgeree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mind Cinema, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:11:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/pseuds/kedgeree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He had built it the night he followed John on a cinema date for the first and last time. From the shadows of the back row, he had seen John's head tilt toward the woman's. She smiled at him. They kissed—a single soft, quick press of lips, almost wholesome. Almost. And then John smiled back at her, the smile that said he'd seen something <em>wonderful</em>, and Sherlock had known immediately he had to build a better theatre, because the one he was in was <em>wrong</em>.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	24 Frames per Second

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pandoras_chaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/gifts).



Sherlock adjusted the brightness of the top light and twisted the fine focus knob on his kitchen microscope, bringing into perfect definition the tiny pod clinging to the torn edge of a leaf. "There you are," he whispered encouragement to the little pearlescent, pin-shaped grain. "Now tell me something I don't know."

He heard John's bedroom door close, and lifted his eyes from the compound eyepiece long enough to observe the subtle vibrations of the wall in front of him as John descended the staircase behind. He bent his head back to the microscope before John entered the kitchen, humming under his breath. The artfully manufactured and mingled scents of juniper, sandalwood, and violet leaf teased Sherlock's nose.

_Date._

Sherlock's lips pressed together just a little more tightly as behind him the one of the drawers, right of the cooker, second from the top, the squeaky one, opened and closed. Packaging paper crinkled.

"Taking Tina to the cinema," John announced with a mouthful of biscuit. The chocolate ones, probably. "She wants to see that new one about…vampires or something."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed his disinterest as John crunched into another biscuit.

"I know," John's chuckle was wry. The left corner of his mouth would be pulled up in a half-smile. "It would be more fun with your commentary. Like telly."

Sherlock turned his leaf fragment a few degrees clockwise. He didn't need to look at John to know he was wearing his date uniform—some dreadful jumper over some dreadful plaid button-up over the jeans that were starting to wear along the thighs. John thought they flattered him. They did. Sherlock didn't need to look to know.

He would have at least a few little crumbs in his jumper now, and not notice in order to brush them out.

The biscuits package crinkled again. The squeaky drawer opened and closed. Soft groan of wood: John leaning back against the worktop. His arms would be folded, left over right. Ankles crossed, right over left. Quiet. Watching him?

"It's just casual, you know." The sentence was offered tentatively, in a slightly higher pitch than John's voice usually registered.

Sherlock lifted his head and looked away from the microscope long enough to pick up the pen next to his case journal. "Have a nice time," he said shortly, scribbling down a few notes.  _Go on, then._

John's weight shifted and footsteps crossed the kitchen, stopping just behind Sherlock. He bent over Sherlock's shoulder to look at his notes.

" _Leptidea juvernica_ ," John sounded the words out slowly as he deciphered Sherlock's scrawl. His Latin pronunciation was perfect, of course.

The juniper notes of his cologne were stronger in close proximity. Sherlock inhaled slowly, quietly, and deeply.

"Butterflies?" John asked lightly. He had one hand on the back of Sherlock's chair, curled around the back rail. Sherlock could hear the sigh of his skin sliding against the wood.

" _Leptidea juvernica_ ," Sherlock repeated crisply, eyes drifting back to his case notes. He saw blue in his peripheral vision. John's jumper was a deep, heather blue. He frowned and moved his hands back to his microscope, letting his fingertips brush over the cold metal. "Also known as the Cryptic Wood White butterfly. Found only in  _Ireland_." He nodded briefly toward the base of the microscope. "And  _that_  is one of her eggs. Attached to a leaf found in Kevin Chandra's daypack."

"So…"

"During his walking tour of  _Scotland_ ," Sherlock said pointedly.

"Ahhh. I see."

Sherlock heard the smile in John's voice. Warm admiration in his jumper-blue eyes. He twisted the coarse focus knob sharply, blurring the field-and-fence landscape of the leaf's outer cell layer and its tiny white settler.

"Do you need any help? With the case?"

"Don't you have a  _date_?" The world rolled out in a wash of disdain and ended a sharp pop of the final consonant, and he hadn't meant that. Blinked. Swallowed. Recovered. "No," he said in a more level voice. Controlled. "I don't need help."  _Just leave._

John's weight shifted again. A pause hovered in the air, a breath, a sigh, a vapour, a butterfly's wing, and then John touched his shoulder.

Sherlock froze.

"I know it's not really your thing, Sherlock—the cinema or pubs or whatever—but I wish you'd come out with me one night." His touch was solid, but his voice was high and strange again. Uncertain. There would be a single, tight vertical line of tension between his eyebrows, not the double or triple ones that accompanied fully expressed frowns. His hand pressed flat, then slid forward over the curve of Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock's chest tightened. "Not for a case. Just for…fun. I think we could…find something you liked."

Sherlock's brain flickered like a light bulb about to burn out. What could he say? What should he say?  _I can't. Just go._  "I'm busy," he heard himself say, and the words sounded as hollow as they felt. He gave the focus knob on the microscope another twist, but this time his eyes were closed.

\-----------------------------------------------------

The light that penetrated his closed lids shifted from the microscope's narrow white beam to a soft amber glow. The ambient sounds of the city outside faded to a heavy, vast silence. He opened his eyes to the grand auditorium.

John Watson was wrong. Sherlock did enjoy the cinema. Not the crass, crowded, sticky-floored boxes of slack-jawed idiots in the real world.  _His_  cinema was private, magnificent, and timeless. A classic picture palace, dressed in opulent Baroque style, with luxurious velvet seats and a towering interior topped with sparkling crystal chandeliers. An intricately carved proscenium arch, layered in gilt, framed a thick-draped fall of scarlet red curtains.

He had his choice of seats, he selected the films, he wrote the scripts, he cast the actors, and he operated the projector—celluloid, of course, with proper film reels.

He had built it the night he followed John on a cinema date for the first and last time. From the shadows of the back row, he had seen John's head tilt toward the woman's. She smiled at him. They kissed—a single soft, quick press of lips, almost wholesome. Almost. And then John smiled back at her, the smile that said he'd seen something  _wonderful_ , and Sherlock had known immediately he had to build a better theatre, because the one he was in was  _wrong_.

\---

_New reel._

_"Bella notte!" Angelo proclaimed, gazing skyward from the door of his restaurant as John and Sherlock were leaving. Sherlock looked up to see a strip of indigo sprinkled with stars that somehow shone brighter than the full moon, and pulled John to his side. They walked arm-in-arm through Regent's Park, where icicles dripped from the shimmering fountains and holiday lights twinkled in the bare, elegant black branches of the trees, and left footprints in the freshly-fallen snow. They sat huddled together, John tucked perfectly under Sherlock's arm, atop the high curve of an arching bridge and watched the moonlight ripple over the stream below. John turned his face to Sherlock's for a kiss—a soft, slow kiss—_

\---

_New reel._

_The blizzard raged outside the abandoned barn. Howled. They were safe here, safe from their pursuers. There was still so much to do, but tonight they were trapped in the hay dust and the smell of leather and old wood. They laid a blanket over a bed of hay and huddled together for warmth. Their hands touched, then interlaced, and Sherlock was content there, looking up at the dusty rafters in the soft light, resting in the long pause with John beside him._

_But John rolled over, leaned against his chest and pushed a hand into his hair. "What really goes on up there, Sherlock? In your head."_

_"The work."_

_"But there isn't anything you can do about the work at the moment," John asked softly, "Is there?"_

_"No," said Sherlock._

_John stretched up and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Are you thinking about it now?" he teased._

_"I’m not," Sherlock said, and he kissed John. He kissed John, and it was neither sweet nor soft. He rolled John over onto his back in the sharp hay and kissed him fiercely, kissed him and bit at him with an urgent hunger, raking teeth over his skin. John growled and laughed like this was play, but it wasn't. Sherlock loved him so much it hurt. He would never find another like him. It hurt, and he had to make John feel—_

\---

Sherlock was alone in his theatre. No one would see him. No one would know. There were no tedious rules of  _propriety_  to obey here. He unbuttoned and pulled off his shirt and threw it into the empty aisle behind him.  _Better_.  _Easier to…breathe_. He ran one hand down his torso, over the band of his trousers, and down his thigh. His body was tense, expectant, and hard.

\---

_New reel._

_John fought fearlessly in the dark, rain-spattered alley. Sprays of water flew off his fists as he swung, but it was four on one and he wouldn't last. Sherlock was supposed to stay hidden, but he couldn't let him fall, and he joined the fray with no hesitation. Together they were unstoppable, and it wasn't long before the last of their adversaries fell._

_Sherlock turned back toward the shadows, but John called, "Wait!"_

_Sherlock's feet stopped moving as John approached him, eyes shining._

_"You are…amazing," John said._

_Sherlock smiled slyly. "That's not what most people say." He reached for John's jacket, bunched his hands in the fabric._

_"But you are," John insisted, unbuttoning Sherlock's coat. His breath was coming faster._

_"Nice to have a fan," Sherlock smirked, nudging John's legs apart with his knee._

_John pushed Sherlock's shirt up and ran his black leather gloves roughly over his bare skin. Sherlock yanked at John's coat, pulling him closer, up and almost off his feet into a hard kiss._

_One of those leather-gloved hands skidded back down his body, over his trousers, in between his legs, and squeezed—_

\---

Yes, hard. Sherlock was hard. Lips parted, attention rapt on the screen, he unfastened his trousers and pushed his hand inside. God, yes, so hard. He squeezed his cock, rubbed the ridge of the shaft with his palm and ran his thumb over the head, squeezing moisture from the tip through the thin fabric of his pants. Impatiently, he shoved his trousers and pants down to his thighs, kicking off his shoes so he could slide out of his clothing completely.

\---

_New reel._

_Sherlock got out of the taxi and saw John at the top of the concrete steps leading to the first storey landing of his new home. He had on the jeans that were starting to wear at the thighs, and a blue jumper that matched his eyes. He leaned over the iron railing and called Sherlock's name, joyfully, happy to see him._

_Sherlock had missed him. He didn't know if it had been a day or year or ten years since he had last seen him, because the ache was the same either way. He wanted him. Always._

_John flew down the stairs and into Sherlock's arms so hard his breath was knocked out in a groan. They fell into a hard embrace, entwined, rocking back and forth in the struggle to be closer to one another than their barriers of their bodies would allow._

_When they finally parted, their eyes met and widened. Sherlock's pulse rocked through his veins._

_John bared his teeth and grabbed Sherlock by his coat lapels, shoving him back, back into the wall, and slammed a bruising kiss into him. Sherlock snarled into John's mouth and tore at the fastenings of his clothing while John tore at his until they were finally touching, skin to skin. They stared at each other, amazed, as they rutted against each other, hurried and hungry. It was dry and rough, and his cock caught on skin and hair and denim, and it hurt, but he couldn't stop, didn't want ever to stop—_

\---

Sherlock  _wasn't_  alone in his cinema. Someone was sat beside him, on his right side. A man with small, steady, strong hands. Not his colleague or his associate or even his friend. He didn't know this man.

"Don't look at me," the man warned.

Sherlock was completely naked now, and the film on the screen had no title and no plot, just flesh tones and wet sounds.

The man reached between his legs, where Sherlock was hot and hard and in need. Sherlock did as he was asked—he did not look at the man. He thought he should have recognized the voice, but when the stranger touched him he stopped caring. The red cat's tongue of the velvet seat covering licked against his over-sensitized skin. The man's hand began to stroke his cock.

\---

_New reel._

_Sherlock landed on his back in the warm, wet sand and John dropped to his knees beside him, leant over, and kissed him passionately, like he never wanted to stop. Sherlock's hands slid up and over John's bare shoulders. His skin was hot under Sherlock's palms, and Sherlock felt the warmth of the sun on the backs of his hands. John's hands tangled in his ocean-damp and thickened hair._

_"I never knew it could be like this," Sherlock gasped. John's skin smelled sharp and his lips were salty. "Nobody ever kissed me the way you do."_

_"Nobody?" John grinned smugly, nipping at his lip and then smoothing his hair back. "Not even one? Out of all the men you've been kissed by?"_

_"John," Sherlock blinked into the sunlight gleaming over John's shoulders, "until I met you I didn't think it was possible. You make me…You make me…"_

_"Let's see what I can make you do," John said, and slid down Sherlock's body. He pulled Sherlock's swim shorts down as he went, and settled between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock reached out to touch John's sandy hair as his mouth closed over Sherlock's cock, a hot, wet slide down and then a hard suck, and Sherlock threw his head back—_

\---

He squeezed his eyes closed and moaned as the hand on his cock moved faster, slicker, harder, faster, making quick, wet sounds that were almost in time with the  _tik-a-tik_  of the flickering film, and he threw his head back. The bass from the orchestral score swelled and thrummed through the seats, the glass tears of the great chandeliers shivered, and Sherlock's lips parted in a cry as he came, spilling over that strong hand, melting like warm butter, warm butter the man would suck from his fingers. He would lick him off his fingers like something  _delicious_  and the man didn't want him to but Sherlock had to say his name,  _had_  to—

_John_.

Not a stranger, his lover,  _John_.

\---

_New reel._

_It was snowing in London, and they were running. They were running and running, as fast as they could, terrified, as shots rang out._

_"Faster, John," Sherlock cried, anguished. "Don't look back! Keep running!"_

_"We made it! Sherlock, we made it," John gasped as he hit the door to 221B and turned around, eyes bright with exhilaration and relief. There was nothing behind him but the whisper of falling snow. His smile melted away, and his voice drifted small and soft into the grey night. "Sherlock?"_

_John had made it to safety. That was what mattered._

_"Sherlock, where are you?"_

\---

_New reel._

_"If you knew what I went through," John said brokenly. "If you knew how much I loved you. How much I still love you," he whispered, "Sherlock."_

\-----------------------------------------------------

_John._

Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"John, yes," he called out urgently. "I want to go with you. Don't…leave." He reached for his shoulder, where John's hand was. John's hand wasn't there. There was no residual warmth. The illuminator at the base of his microscope was too bright, and he hastily decreased its intensity as he blinked away the retinal burn. The flat was dark and quiet. John had been gone for hours.

Turning back to his microscope, he gently turned the fine focus knob again until the little opal-coloured butterfly egg, nestled into the tattered edge of the wilting leaf, came back into focus.  _Leptidea juvernica_  was certainly not the most exotic example of the order, with no vivid colours or elaborate stained glass patterns, but Sherlock thought the fuzz-tipped, grey-white wings in the photos of the adults he'd seen had a certain purity and simplicity that was still quite beautiful, if you took the trouble to look closely. It was a shame this one would never hatch, never fly…

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock stood and stumbled backward at the same time, his chair legs skittering across the kitchen lino. "John?" he breathed, startled and caught off-guard, even though mere seconds ago he had expected to open his eyes and find John right behind him, just as he'd left him.

"Have you come back?" John asked from the shadows of the sitting room, from the direction of Sherlock's Le Corbusier leather chair.

"Have  _you_?" He'd never left, Sherlock realized as soon as he asked the question. With his first step forward, his trousers shifted, and he became abruptly aware of a cool, damp spot on the fabric in front of his groin. He shifted again, uncomfortably. Rather a large spot, in fact. And John…John had been there. Seen.  _Heard_. _Oh, god._

"I changed my mind. About the date," John said levelly, "but there's still a midnight show at the cinema. I thought that in light of…recent developments, I might ask again. One more time…"

Sherlock's eyes were adjusting to the darkness as he stood there in his damp, sticky pants, staring like an  _idiot_. He could make out John's shape now, nestled in Sherlock's chair.

"…would you like to come with me?"

Anticipation fluttered inside Sherlock's chest. "You still—"

"More than ever."

It took him two attempts to gather enough breath to answer, "Yes."

"Good. Because you don't seem all that busy, in fact."

Sherlock frowned. "John. I said  _yes_."

"And I'll wait if you need to, you know, clean up a bit."

"John, I—" Sherlock felt his skin flushing hot with embarrassment. He glared at John's silhouette and realized that he didn't need to see him to know that he was grinning ear to ear. He heard the smile in his voice. And then he heard the same ridiculous smile in his own, even through his noble effort at a dignified response as he turned toward his bedroom to change his trousers. "I'll be right with you."

_New reel._

**Author's Note:**

> All Sherlock's film clips in this story are scenes from real films...just edited a bit by Sherlock. :-)


End file.
